(If You Could Only See) The Beast You've Made of Me
by JR Granger
Summary: Lydia and Stiles discover the presence of a darach in Beacon Hills, which subsequently leads to the realization that Stiles is the perfect sacrifice - just in time for him to be captured. Things from there just all go downhill in Stiles' humble opinion. Though, admittedly, he's a little emotionally compromised and more than a little pissed off at everybody right now.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: Just an fyi: in this 'verse Sheriff Stilinski finds out about the supernatural world at the same time as Melissa, there may or may not be the alpha pack, and Jackson stuck around for all the fun.**_

* * *

Lydia keeps finding people, all with their wrists and throats slashed so they're slowly bleeding out, but she finds them all just in time.

Nobody knows why she's the one finding them, or how, and they don't really have much to go on besides her immunity to wolf bites and kanima venom and the little resurrection stunt Peter pulled using her. So they decide instead to focus their attention and resources on finding out what the hell's going on around Beacon Hills this time.

Well, Stiles and Lydia are working on it. Scott and Allison are both too busy moping after each other, and Derek's definitely got his hands full with four betas to train, not to mention Peter to deal with.

As if that weren't enough, Scott and Stiles have to field questions from their parents, which is not fun, no matter how relieved they are to finally be finished with all the lying and sneaking around.

So anyway, Lydia and Stiles, with the grudging help of the Sheriff and Ms. McCall – who figure they should just help because these two will find ways to get information whether they get help or not – look at the victims for some sort of pattern. The first to notice someone is attempting sacrifices is Stiles, but Lydia's the one who figures out who – or rather what – is behind it all: a darach.

Which explains the victims; they're all in groups of three and the groups go as follows: virgins, warriors, philosophers, healers, guardians.

But as soon as they figure that out they realize they have the perfect sacrifice right in their midst, someone who fits all the requirements: Stiles. And by that time he's already been captured by the darach.

* * *

The first thought in Stiles' head as he wakes up with a groan is "did I remember to save my last game of Pokémon?" which, all things considered, shouldn't be at the top of the list of his things to worry about, but seriously he had _just _captured one of the legendaries, he couldn't not save that.

His priorities are straightened out for him when Stiles receives a well-placed kick to the solar plexus, with a stiletto heel no less, making him gasp for air, which subsequently leads to him noticing the expertly knotted rope tying him to a support beam in some sort of root cellar with literal, ginormous roots right in his field of vision.

"Look alive, sunshine, it's your lucky day," a vaguely familiar voice says from the direction the kick came from.

Blinking rapidly to clear the stars from the kick and squinting in the near-darkness lit only by small shafts of moonlight by the roots, Stiles looks up to find his English teacher.

"Ms. Blake?" he coughs, still trying to catch his breath.

She smirks. "Hello, Stiles." Crouching in front of him, Jennifer reaches out a hand to stroke his cheek then grabs him roughly by the chin when he tries to turn his face away, making him look at her. "You just have to stick your nose in everybody's business, don't you?"

Glaring at her, he retorts, "Well, no offence, but I'm pretty sure it's my business when someone starts killing all the virgins in town; solidarity and all that."

"Sweet, adorable Stiles. I really don't understand why no one wants to fuck you with a mouth like that."

He spits in her face, earning him a harsh slap. Stiles just shakes his head as much as he can and tests his jaw. "You'll have to try harder than that," he snarks. "I hang out with werewolves, and I'm their favorite chew toy, so I'm used to a little pain."

Jennifer stands back up, brushing at her knees to rid them of imaginary dirt. "I know," she says, walking over to lean back against the tree roots in a flood of moonlight, "and that's what's so _fascinating_; a human running with a pack of werewolves, holding his own.

"I mean, Allison I get; she's a skilled hunter, one who fell in love with a wolf. Classic Romeo and Juliet-type story with a supernatural twist. And Lydia, she's Jackson's anchor, has a genius-level IQ, and she's something… more. Not sure what, exactly, quite yet, but I'll figure it out.

"But you. You, I don't get." She walks back over, saunters really; Stiles would swear she had gotten lessons from Derek it was so eerily familiar.

Crouching down again, Jennifer strokes a hand from his temple and down his neck, pausing to splay it over his heart. "Sure, your best friend's a werewolf, but what should that matter to you? You haven't really got anything going for you, there's no need for you to get involved in our affairs. But you do. More willingly than Scott. And _that's _interesting."

Seemingly finished with her little speech, Stiles decides it's his chance to ask something. "Why me?"

Head tilted to the side in askance, Jennifer clicks her tongue in disappointment. "Really Stiles, for being the brains of the whole operations, I'd have thought you would've had it all figured out by now."

"I know you're a darach, and I know you're making sacrifices. What I don't know is what you think you're going to accomplish by taking me."

"The thing is, your little crush Lydia? She keeps finding my sacrifices before they're completed. So I figured I could just take care of all five categories in one go.

"And that's where you come in."

Bewildered, Stiles actually laughs in her face. "Me? You've gotta be high or stupid, Ms. Blake, seriously. All you're gonna take care of using me is the virgin category."

Humming, Jennifer's eyes shoot rapidly over his face, searching for something. "You really think that, don't you? You far underestimate yourself, Stiles.

"Yes, it's true, you will fill my need for a virgin, but you fill the others just as perfectly." Moving around behind him, she starts to untie the ropes, continuing to talk. "You filled the role of warrior when you threw that Molotov at Peter Hale last year; philosopher you fill every day with your curiosity of the supernatural world, leading to you having all the answers when the others don't; healer by helping Lydia after Peter's attack; and guardian by keeping the kanima away from Derek while he was paralyzed in the school pool, by shielding Lydia from all those crows in my classroom."

Stiles can't help but be more than slightly creeped out at the fact she knows all that; seems Ms. Blake is even more of a Stalker McStalkerson than Derek.

"You, Stiles," she crawls back around as she finishes untying him from the beam, though his arms and legs are still bound, "are the perfect sacrifice, made all the better by the fact that your death will hurt not just Scott but the entire pack, leaving them open and vulnerable."

He seriously doubts anyone besides his dad and Scott, maybe Allison and Ms. McCall, will miss him when he's gone. They'll all probably celebrate once they're rid of the annoying chatterbox who never shuts up and is constantly yapping about being right all along. Derek, he's even surer, will miss him least of all and will be anything but vulnerable.

He lets her think she's right though because, hey that way she'll let _her _guard down so that his dad or the pack can take care of her, avenge his death or something. That would be cool, someone avenging his death.

Taking hold of the rope binding his arms, Jennifer drags Stiles over to the tree and ties his upper body to the largest root, slices the rope holding his arms and ties them stretched out from his sides, wrists facing up, before pulling out a wicked-looking knife.

"Anything you'd like to say before I slit your wrists and throat and leave you here for your pack to find, cold and dead?"

He shrugs as best he can. "Eh, not really. Kinda wish I could set you on fire, or watch Scott rip out your throat though."

That sadly only makes her laugh. "Oh Stiles, I am truly going to miss having you in class." And with that she makes smooth cuts on both his wrists, slicing clean though the tendons so he can't even clench his fists though the sharp pain, then pulls his head back roughly with a tight grip on his newly grown out hair and slashes across his throat, making sure to avoid the jugular so he bleeds out slowly and painfully.

Stiles gasps through the pain, recoiling when she leans forward to place a chaste kiss on his forehead, then watches her leave by the stairs across the cellar.

He lies there for what feels like forever and only a few minutes at the same time, vision whiting out, hearing becoming muffled and static-y, and limbs tingling painfully.

Just when he's about to pass out Stiles swears he sees a pair of familiar red eyes fading into even more familiar hazel, worried and panicked, distant voice growling and begging for Stiles to stay with him as hands untie him and attempt to staunch the blood flow.

* * *

When Lydia figures out who the perfect sacrifice is the Sheriff rushes around town in search of Stiles and comes up empty handed and shaking, so she calls Scott and Derek, demanding they all meet up _immediately_.

The entire pack plus Chris Argent, surprisingly – probably forced Allison to bring him – gather at the burnt out shell of the Hale house. Everyone scrambles to ask Lydia what's going on, where's Stiles, all of them talking over each other until Derek growls for them to shut the fuck up and let Lydia talk.

"While you were all busy being obnoxious children that don't know how to listen to daddy," that earns her a few angry rumbles but Lydia ignores them and continues, "Stiles and I have been investigating all the attempted sacrifices around town."

Chris nods. "I have as well." He turns to the pack. "We have a darach on our hands, making sacrifices to gain more power – no doubt to take you out."

Scowl deepening, Derek asks, "And what sort of sacrifices are being made, or attempted?"

"Virgins, warriors, philosophers, healers, and guardians; that's what she needs, three of each."

"But I've been finding all of them before the sacrifices could be completed," Lydia adds, "so the darach has decided to make the ultimate sacrifice."

"Who?" Scott demands, voice turning into a growl as he struggles against the shift, knowing the answer.

Lydia's voice wavers as she answers. "Stiles."

The pack stares, eyes widening in horror, Scott being the only one that utters a sound, making a strangled whine that sounds like Stiles' name. Allison takes ahold of his face in both hands, forcing him to hold her gaze as he shakes with anger and the shift.

The shocked silence is broken by a distressed, furious growl, drawing everyone's eyes to Derek, also wolfed out. "Where is he," he grits through his fangs, glaring at Chris and Lydia, "where have they taken him."

"I believe I can help you with that," Peter says from within the shadows, stepping out to join them, smirk firmly in place. "It's somewhere we've both been before, Derek; I'm sure you'll recall."

"_Where!_"

The smirk widens. "Our little root cellar."

* * *

The Camaro skids to a halt front of the emergency room entrance, Derek not even bothering with the keys or ignition as he pulls Stiles out of the backseat and rushes through the doors yelling for help, the pack immediately behind. Melissa runs up with a gurney, shouting orders as they wheel him away, holding up an arm as the pack tries to follow, Derek just barely holding back a snarl.

"You need to stay out here and wait for the Sheriff," she says in a strict tone before going in the doorway they took Stiles through.

Derek paces the waiting room floor, forcing himself to breathe and not shift, as the rest of the pack sit close together in the chairs, watching him and fidgeting as they wait for news. The Sheriff comes barreling in a couple minutes later, heading straight for Derek and grabbing him by the lapels of his leather jacket, slamming him into the nearest wall.

"This is your fault," he rumbles, slamming him back again for good measure, Derek letting him.

Scott scrambles up and out of his seat, followed closely by Lydia and Isaac. "No, Mr. Stilinski, it wasn't Derek!"

"It's true," Lydia rushes out. "If it's anyone's fault it's Peter's; he's the one that bit Scott. You know that."

Breathing out slowly as Scott grabs him by the shoulders and Isaac unlatches the Sheriff's hands from his alpha, John backs up, shaking. "I'm sorry, son, I -"

"It's okay, sir," Derek interrupts, "I understand." He runs his hands back through his hair, clutching at the strands. "I wish I had – I should have known sooner, the darach was in my territory, and the pack is my responsibility, which includes the humans."

John shakes him head. "You know Stiles; he would've gotten in trouble somehow even if you had known." That earns weak, shaky laughter from the pack as they all settle back down to continue waiting for news from Melissa.

* * *

They get Stiles bandaged, stop the bleeding, and get him hooked up to blood bags, but it's all pretty touch and go; he lost liters of blood and he has yet to wake up, the heart monitor showing a weak, unsteady pulse.

* * *

Chris Argent comes in early the next morning to let them know he found the darach and took care of her. The news doesn't really cheer any of them up.

* * *

After the first day the pack starts taking turns going home to shower, eat, and get rest, but someone always stays with him, visiting-hour rules be damned. Scott and Derek are the hardest ones to convince to go home and rest.

* * *

When a week goes by, and a blood transfusion has been done, and various tests performed, Stiles' condition does not improve, nor does he wake up. The doctors declare he's in a coma but they're not quite sure why. Derek drags in Deaton on the chance that something magical may be preventing Stiles from recovering but he says he'll have to do more research to know for sure and leaves with that.

* * *

Two weeks in John starts getting desperate.

"Please," he begs Derek outside Stiles' room, "just give him the bite."

Running a hand through his hair and down his face – he's been doing that a lot lately – Derek takes a deep breath. "I've considered it," he admits, meeting the Sheriff's eyes, "but I don't know if it'll help."

John squeezes his eyes shut, his shoulders drooping. "Could you still try?"

Gritting his teeth, Derek starts to shake his head. "He doesn't want it." That gets John to open his eyes. "He never told anyone, but I know Peter had to have offered after he attacked Lydia."

Nodding as he processes, John curls in his lips and pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes once again closed. He blows out a breath and asks quietly, "Would you please just – consider it."

* * *

A month in Stiles' condition slowly starts to worsen and Deaton still has no explanation. The pack begs Derek to give him the bite, insist that he can't get any worse for it. When Deaton says nothing against it Derek gives in, despite the fact that he _knows _Stiles doesn't want it because somewhere along the road they stopped hating each other, because Derek is selfish and he doesn't want to lose any of the few people he has in his life who care even a little bit.

* * *

When Stiles finally wakes up everything is sharper; he can hears everyone in the hospital, can smell everyone, and he knows, he just knows.

He sits up quickly, not getting even a little bit dizzy from the sudden movements after a month of none, tears out the IV and oxygen tube, grabs the clean set of clothes sitting conveniently in the chair next to his bed, and changes into them before rushing – at human speed. He's pissed off, not stupid – down to the cafeteria where he knows Scott and Derek are getting him food. As soon as he sees them both, sees Scott's face light up and Derek's turn impossibly grimmer, he walks up and clocks them both to the shock of the whole room before storming outside to his father's cruiser just as he's getting out.

"Stiles," his dad says with a mixture of relief, hope, and trepidation.

"Not one word, dad," he growls then continues out of the parking lot, having made sure his dad was okay. Once he reaches relative cover he shifts and starts running as fast and hard as he can, not paying particular attention to where he's going, and not stopping until he runs out of breath.


	2. Chapter 2

** If anyone tries to climb in my window tonight, or anytime in the near future, I will rip their throat out with my teeth.**

The pack sighs at the group text Stiles sends as soon as he gets home. They all understand that he's angry – he has every right to be, considering they went against his wishes by giving him the bite – but none of them think it wise to leave him alone so soon after he's been turned.

Scott's the first to get up and grab his jacket, the others watching him.

"Where are you going?" Erica asks, demands really.

He shrugs on his jacket and heads toward the door of Derek's loft, where they all convened after Stiles left the hospital. "I'm headed to Stiles' house."

"That's really not a good idea," Isaac points out. "You know he was serious."

Nodding, Scott opens the door and steps out. "I know."

Derek watches him leave, considering following after.

* * *

Stiles lies on his bed, window shut and locked, while he experiments by trying to shift only one thing at a time. It's going surprisingly well considering he's only been a werewolf about four hours max he'd say.

Not long after he sends out the mass text message Stiles hears someone creeping up to the house and jumping up onto the roof near his window; even if he didn't have the super-smell to back him up Stiles would still know without a doubt who's coming to visit despite his threat.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing here, Scott?" Stiles asks at a conversational volume, voice turning into a slight growl as he tries out just shifting his fangs.

Outside the window now Scott replies, "You know why I'm here, man. C'mon, let me in."

Smelling the desperation and hearing the slight hitch of fear in his heart, Stiles sits up on the bed to face Scott. "If you don't leave in the next ten seconds I will open that window and follow through with the ripping out of your throat I mentioned in the text."

Swallowing thickly, Scott nods and holds his hands up in defeat. "Okay, I get it, you're pissed -"

"'Pissed'?" Stiles interrupts with a bitter laugh. "That's not even the half of it, Scott!" He surges up and starts pacing his room. "You knew this wasn't something I wanted. _All of you knew, _yet you still let Derek give me the bite!"

"Yeah, we did!" Scott exclaims, fighting back despite the fact he knows Stiles could really snap any second now. "And we'd do it again because you were _dying, _Stiles, and nobody knew why!

"So, yes, we gave you the bite because none of us wanted to lose you."

Fangs clenched, Stiles comes to a halt in front of the window and stalks up to it. "So. What," he snarls.

Deflating, Scott lowers his head in defeat. "Okay, I get it; you don't want to listen to any excuses. I – We'll leave you alone just – just think about what I said, okay man? And once you're ready we'll be here." With that and a final tear-filled look at Stiles he jumps down and runs back the way he came.

Sitting back down on his bed with a huff, Stiles clenches his fists. Scott was telling the truth, and he doesn't know whether that makes him feel better or worse about this whole situation.

* * *

Derek knows he shouldn't, knows Scott got off easy because he wasn't the one that did the turning, but Derek… He has to know. He has to see with his own eyes that Stiles is okay, that it really took. (Because a few seconds in the hospital cafeteria getting punched doesn't count.) So he quietly makes his way into the Stilinskis' yard and up the side of the house to the roof near Stiles' window. When he gets there he's met with a glowering, wolfed out Stiles.

"I guess I shouldn't be surprised you can't listen to a simple order either," Stiles grinds out when all Derek does is scowl back – which is a bit hypocritical.

Ignoring the jibe, Derek says, "I just wanted to make sure -"

"That I what?" Stiles interrupts. Apparently when he's angry Stiles likes to interrupt people. Good to know. "That I'm not gonna attack my dad or anything? Relax, big guy, you turned me just after the full moon, so we're good."

Derek growls. "No, that's not – I just wanted to make sure you were okay." Stiles starts to open his mouth again, and Derek rushes to cut him off. "I know you're not 'okay' because we – _I _gave you the bite when I knew you didn't want it, knew it was the last thing you wanted, but I just… I wanted to make sure you weren't going to do something stupid."

Rolling his eyes with a huff, Stiles turns around and heads back to his bed. "Well thanks for the vote of confidence, Derek," he sneers, "but I'm pretty sure if I were going to do something stupid tonight you would be the first to know."

He manages to hold back a chuckle but not a smirk, making Stiles glare harder. "I'm sure."

They sit, Stiles on his bed and Derek just outside the locked window, just staring at each other. Derek feels like there's more he should say, but he doesn't know what exactly _to _say.

They both hear the Sheriff come home, enter the house, and walk up the stairs, but they just continue staring at each other, neither willing to be the first to look away.

When John reaches Stiles' door he knocks tentatively, asking quietly if he can come in. Stiles answers in the affirmative and just keeps up the staring contest even as his dad walks in and looks between Derek and his son, eyebrows raised in question. In an attempt to intimidate Derek flashes his eyes red, but all Stiles does is flash his eyes gold, making Derek scowl and Stiles grin smugly – which is the exact moment he realizes Stiles is going to be even more of a handful than the rest of his betas, an accomplishment in and of itself.

With a huff and a roll of his eyes Derek looks away first, Stiles crowing and pumping his fist in triumph. Derek shakes his head and says, "You know where to find me when you're ready," then jumps down before Stiles can say anything else.

As he's leaving he hears John ask what he was doing there and Stiles replies that he was just being his normal, stalker-y self. Derek snorts out a laugh, know Stiles hears when he barks out a laugh in surprise.

* * *

"So kid," John says as he sits down in Stiles' desk chair, "you ready to talk to me?" Stiles shrugs. "C'mon Stiles, you know I wouldn't have asked Derek to -"

"_You _asked him to make me into _this_?" He shifts completely to prove his point. "Did you honestly think I would be okay with this?"

John shakes his head. "I knew you would be angry with all of us, me and Derek especially." He inches the chair closer to the bed so he's directly in front of Stiles. "But son, I couldn't – I can't lose you too.

"The doctors had no idea what was wrong, why you weren't waking up, and you were starting to deteriorate with no explanation and I couldn't do it.

"So yes, I asked Derek to make you into a werewolf if it would save you. He didn't even want to do it at first, I practically had to beg him to even consider it, but as soon as he saw you were starting to get worse he knew, and he gave you the bite that night before I even had to ask him again."

Stiles sits there staring at him, clearly using his new hyperaware senses to judge whether he was being truthful or not, and that was something he was going to have to get used to, but it was worth it, so worth it.

"None of us wanted to lose you, Stiles," John continues quietly when Stiles doesn't say anything. "We were all so worried about you. The pack never left you alone, always making sure someone was with you, and we had to fight Scott and Derek to make sure they went home to rest and eat."

That certainly gets a response.

"Wait, Derek wouldn't leave?" Stiles asks, shifting back slightly, eyebrows furrowed as he snorts in disbelief. "I'm sorry, but we must be talking about a different guy here; Derek Hale doesn't worry like that over anyone, not even himself."

John smiles and reaches out to ruffle Stiles' hair – and Stiles actually lets him. "Oh Stiles, you really have no clue, do you?"

* * *

When he gets back to his loft Derek finds the rest of the pack still there.

"What're you still doing here?" he asks as he tosses his leather jacket onto his bed. "Shouldn't you all be at home by now? It's late."

Lydia ignores him, simply placing her hands on her hips. "Well I see he didn't rip your throat out either."

"Stilinski really needs to work on following through with his threats," Jackson snorts.

"Like you're any better," Allison counters, and then turns to Derek. "How is he?"

Leaning back against the table, Derek crosses his arms. "He's fine. Seriously pissed off about getting the bite, but fine. He can even control the shift pretty well already."

Erica whistles. "I knew that kid would make a good wolf."

"So is he gonna join the pack?" Isaac asks.

"When he's ready," Derek shrugs.

Scott sighs. "That'll take awhile."

"I think you'll be surprised at how quickly he'll come around."

* * *

It actually only takes Stiles about a week. Maybe two. Well, he's still über pissed, but he's big enough to admit that maybe it would be a good idea to join the pack and get trained and all that. 'Cause, while he's able to shift just his eyes, fangs, or claws, the full moon will be here soon enough, and one of these days something or someone is going to seriously piss him off – more than he's pissed off at Derek – and he doesn't want to accidentally hurt someone, so yeah. Some training would be good. Plus it might be fun. Maybe.

Also, school has kinda sucked because he hasn't really been talking to any of the pack because he feels like if he lets up on one person the rest will just cave in. Or something to that effect, he isn't really sure anymore.

So on the third Sunday of the month, the night of the new moon, Stiles heads over to Derek's loft unannounced – because, hey, where would the fun be if he gave prior notice that he was finally ready to join the fun or whatever? Of course it would be better if Derek didn't hear or smell him as soon as he gets into the building, but he'll take what he can get.

The door to the loft rolls open before Stiles even has the chance to set off Derek's warning buzzer and, even though he could tell from the smells, he's still surprised it's just Derek.

"What, no pack bonding time?" he asks as he just shoves his way in through the gap between Derek and the door.

Huffing, Derek closes the door before turning around to follow him back over to the table. "It's Sunday night, they all have better things to do than hang around here."

Stiles snorts. "Wow, that really boosts the self-esteem for both of us."

Sigh. "What are you doing here, Stiles?"

He hoists himself up onto the table. "Pretty sure you already know the answer to that question."

Arms crossed, Derek stops a few feet in front of him. "You sure you're ready? Right now?"

"Would I be here if I weren't?" Stiles rolls his eyes. "Sure, I'm still not pleased with you, but what's a boy to do when the full moon's in two weeks and he has no anchor and no training?"

"You do realize that Scott and Isaac are the only others that have anchors, right? And Isaac's still learning. It could take you a long time to control the shift that well."

"Well rumor has it that I'm pretty good at control already."

"Who told you that?"

"I overheard Jackson being all whiny about the newbie getting grudging respect from you on his control while Jackson only gets anger and annoyance. Then Lydia scolded him. It was pretty hilarious."

"All right, yes, you do have fairly good control for someone who's just been turned a couple weeks ago," Derek admits, teeth clenched slightly. "But you still need to learn how to control the shift when you're angry."

Stiles waves his hands in a 'move along' sort of gesture. "Yeah, yeah, that's one of the main reasons why I'm here, so can we get to the lessons or whatever?"

"Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? Why not tonight, why not now?"

The raised brows speak for Derek.

"C'mon, don't I get private lessons or something?"

"Why would you get 'private lessons'?"

"I don't know, so I don't embarrass myself in front of the others?" The eyebrows rise higher. "Wait, no, you'd take pleasure in that… So I don't embarrass them by getting something down faster than they did? Wait, no, that'd be awesome… Forget private lessons, why can't we just start now?"

"You have school in the morning."

Stiles scowls. "Since when do you care if any of us go to school?"

Derek just does his creepy staring thing – which actually isn't so creepy anymore, more endearing really – and where the hell did that come from?

He throws up his hands. "Ugh, fine, I'm going, you freaking spoilwolf." He hops off the table and heads back over to the door. "I'll see you first thing to-"

"No," Derek interrupts, "after school."

Spinning around, Stiles makes a face. "Are you sure you want me to go to school? I could get all riled up at lacrosse practice."

"You've been fine for the past two weeks, I think you'll survive one more day."

"What if Harris really pisses me off?"

"Again, it's one more day, you'll be fine."

"Fine, whatever, see you tomorrow." And Stiles tries his best to slam the rolling door behind him. It doesn't work out as well as he wants.

* * *

At school the next day Isaac sits next to Stiles at lunch. "So you're finally gonna start training with us?"

Squinting his eyes to examine Isaac, Stiles asks, "I doubt Derek told you that so how do you -? Ohhh, you live at the loft, don't you?"

He nods. "I could smell you'd been there."

"Yeah," Stiles sighs. "Tried to get him to start last night, but he insisted on waiting till after school today."

"Well you haven't had any problems since you've been back," Isaac offers, "so I'm sure you'll be good till later."

"That's what he said."

And Stiles had been fine for the past couple weeks, and today things were going pretty well, but after lunch he, Isaac, Erica, Scott, Lydia, and Allison have chemistry with Harris, and of course that's when things kinda go to shit.

He and Lydia are sitting at their lab table, finally talking again while they work on the day's experiment, when Harris comes up and demands to know what they're doing.

"Uhh, doing the experiment?" Stiles offers, just barely holding back from rolling his eyes.

"I don't believe the experiment entails gossiping," Harris states.

Frowning, Stiles clenches his slightly trembling hands. "Last time I checked high school chemistry doesn't require complete silence; pretty sure I'm not gonna startle any of the compounds with the sound of my dulcet tones."

Lydia takes ahold of his wrist in an attempt to calm him down as Harris gives him yet another completely uncalled for detention.

"Oh and Miss Martin can join you this afternoon," Harris adds as he walks back over to his desk.

Getting another detention that he doesn't deserve? Stiles can handle that. But giving one to Lydia, who's never gotten into trouble with any sort of authority? Wrong move.

As his fists clench tighter, Stiles can feel his claws coming out and digging into his palms and his heart rate pick up, his teeth grinding together as his fangs come out too. He can hear Lydia and the others talking to him, trying to calm him down, but their voices are just coming through as muffled static as his blood starts to boil.

Right as he feels the rest of the shift starting to take effect, a pair of hands grabs him by the shoulders and pulls him out of the classroom and into the hall, Harris' voice yelling after them. Looking up, Stiles sees Scott staring back at him, hands holding tight to his shoulders.

"Breathe, Stiles, just breathe."

So he shuts his eyes and holds his breath for a few seconds before forcing it into a calm, steady pace, something he used to do when he had panic attacks after his mom died. It actually helps too, his claws and fangs retracting and the anger dissipating.

Scott lets go of his shoulders. "Dude, how'd you do that?"

Opening his eyes back up Stiles sees Scott staring in shock and fascination, like he thought he was going to have to fight Stiles to get him to calm down or something – which, now that he thinks about it, Stiles kind of expected that's how it was gonna go down too.

He shrugs a little helplessly. "I don't know. I just did it."


	3. Chapter 3

After the incident with Harris, Stiles makes it through the rest of school and his detention, though the pack makes sure he's never left alone just in case. By the time three thirty rolls around he's more than ready to leave and start his werewolf training, anything to get away from Harris.

He and Lydia drive out to the Hale house in the Jeep, going around and parking away from where Scott, Isaac, Boyd, and Erica are sparring in the open field next to the ramshackle structure. She gets out and heads over to the porch where Allison is sitting, and Stiles goes to follow, planning on looking inside for Derek, but as he starts walking over he hears a slight rustle in the trees behind, signaling someone's not nearly stealthy enough approach, and from the smell he can tell it's Jackson. (He doesn't know how he can tell that, he just knows.)

Just as Jackson gets within a few feet Stiles whips around and shoves his hand into Jackson's chest, making him stumble back. Jackson growls and charges back in a little hotheaded – which is probably why Stiles is able to take down with just a few simple moves that he didn't know he was aware of let alone capable of, despite the fact that Jackson's wolfed out and Stiles isn't.

Stiles is glancing between his hands and Jackson, still on the ground, in amazement but, unlike pre-bite, he isn't startled when Derek comes out of nowhere, without a sound, from behind him.

"Good," Derek says, clapping him on the shoulder. "Looks like it's more than just control you're naturally good at."

Eyebrows raised, Stiles looks over his shoulder. "That's how you're starting my training? By having Jackson jump out at me?"

Look in place that clearly reads 'you're an idiot', Derek removes his hand and backs up. "I need to know what all I have to teach you. According to the others you can anchor yourself fairly well when angry, though I'll have to test that myself later, but right now I was thinking more physical training." He keeps walking backward until he reaches the middle of the clearing in between the sparring pairs, then beckons Stiles forward.

Taking a deep breath, Stiles starts forward only to be jumped from behind by Erica and the right by Isaac. He isn't fast enough to counter both, ending up with Erica lodged to his back digging her claws in everywhere she can reach. He struggles to flip her up and over his head, finally wolfing out to dig his own claws in her hair and bicep, but as soon as he gets her off Isaac moves in, swiping at Stiles' fleshy side and stomach. Just barely judging, Stiles throws a hard punch, hearing Isaac's jaw crack, just in time to spin around and block Boyd's attack. Except that's when Jackson moves back in, kicking Stiles in the stomach to send him flying a few feet as he's caught off guard.

* * *

"Are you sure this is really fair," Scott asks Derek as the other betas gang up on Stiles; "having four-on-one against Stiles when he was just turned a couple weeks ago?"

He continues to watch, looking for things that'll need improvement. "He needs to learn somehow." He turns a fraction of an inch to meet Scott's eyes for a second. "Wouldn't you rather it be with those he trusts, who mean well and are also still learning?"

Scott shrugs, then winces when a crack and pop, and subsequent yelp, rebound off the trees and rubble, signaling the break of Stiles' arm and dislocation of his shoulder as Jackson pulls and twists the arm roughly behind his back. "I guess."

As they watch Stiles falls back, leaning all his weight on Jackson, who isn't expecting such a move and ends up losing his footing. Stiles takes advantage of this, sweeping a leg around to trip him, going with the fall then rolling away and onto his feet into a defensive pose, growling quietly as Isaac, Erica, and Boyd circle him. They attack in turns, getting in occasional swipes, until Boyd and Erica move in together from either side, no doubt hoping to throw him off again with their quick double attack. It backfires when Stiles rolls out of their paths at the very last second, causing them to run into each other, while Stiles continues the roll into Isaac (who got distracted laughing at the other two), taking him down so he can sit on his lower back and pin Isaac's arms and legs before he can make a move.

Scott cheers and runs over as Stiles grins and laughs, Derek struggling to hide a smirk.

"All right guys," he calls, gaining all their attention, "time to take a break before you work on tracking." He watches with a warm, proud feeling growing in his chest as Stiles gets up and helps Isaac, the other slapping his back and complain good-naturedly about how they had been expecting him to still be a klutz, to which Stiles objects in mock-seriousness, making the others while, especially as Jackson keeps grumbling.

Peter comes up behind Derek, hands clasped behind his back. "Glad to see my instincts were right," he muses quietly so only Derek can hear, smirk apparent in his voice; "Stiles makes a _very _good werewolf." He leans in closer. "Imagine what he'll be able to do when he gets some actual training. Or if he every makes alpha."

Clenching his fists and starting to growl inaudibly, Derek hears Peter chuckle.

"Don't worry, I won't touch a hair on your pet's pretty little head. We are pack after all." With that vaguely ominous statement he melts back into the shadows just as Derek's growl grows in volume and threat.

"What is it, what's wrong?" Stiles asks from directly in front of him, having inched steadily closer when he noticed Peter. "What'd he say?"

"Nothing," Derek snaps before he can stop himself, drawing a scowl and a flash of gold eyes from Stiles. "Don't you have tracking to practice?"

Eyes narrowed and jaw clenched, Stiles lets it go, though Derek isn't fooled into thinking he'll drop it just like that. "Fine. Who's tracking and who's bait?"

* * *

Bounding up into the trees silently, Stiles hangs his jacket from a high limb to throw off Scott and Boyd before he leaps down and lands with a roll. As he runs through the leaves and brush, zigzagging in the hopes of throwing off Allison as well, Stiles considers what Peter could have said to Derek. Maybe it was something about him? Maybe Peter was a little pissed because he had been the one to actually offer Stiles the bite and he had been turned down?

…Nah, that can't be it.

He's just thinking that maybe now isn't the best time to be thinking about this when an arrow comes zipping from the west. Instinctively, Stiles catches it but others keep volleying after, one grazing his right calf as he changes course, heading toward the nearby creek so he can wash off the blood. Reaching it he splashes in, not worrying about the noise at this point, just hoping all the blood was washed off as the wound heals up and he keeps running through the creek and into where the trees start back up.

The arrows have stopped so Stiles figures he's lost Allison for the moment at least, but he quiets his movements again so he doesn't draw in the others. After a few yards he comes across a small clearing with cellar doors and, looking, smelling, and listening, notices no one else around, so he figures it wouldn't hurt to check out what a root cellar is doing in the middle of the woods.

* * *

Derek follows the pack, just to see how they're doing. When he smells Stiles and just finds his hoodie lying on the ground, ripped to shreds, he chuckles lightly. The good humor fades quickly though when he hears a distressed howl, one he just knows to be Stiles, coming from a direction he'd hoped he'd never have to go again.

* * *

If he wasn't a werewolf with freaky super-organs and shit Stiles knows he would be hyperventilating right now. As it is he's feeling much worse than this afternoon; his claws are out and stabbing at his scalp as he clutches at his hair, his fangs are chewing into his lips, and he can't stop howling – something he would find kinda awesome if he weren't so busy freaking out at where he is right now.

* * *

When Derek reaches the cellar – he's the first one there, where the _hell _are his betas? – it's to find Stiles standing in front of the nematon, unable to look away as he pulls at his hair, thankfully not tearing it out.

He approaches cautiously; making noise for once so Stiles knows he's there and holding his hands open in front of him. "Stiles," he says, trying to use a gentle tone as he moves to stand between the roots and the teen. "Stiles look at me." When that generates no response he reverts back to the alpha tone. "Stiles!"

Blinking and breathing hard, Stiles shifts his gaze to Derek, eyes moving rapidly, searching his face, as tears make their way down his face and the howls turn into a small, equally distressed whine.

Derek moves closer, not stopping until he's mere inches away, where he takes ahold of Stiles' wrists, grip just short of too tight, to remove his hands from his hair. "Stiles breathe."

Head shaking minutely, Stiles clenches his fists, claws now digging into his hands. "I can't. That – that was nothing, back at the school. This is, this is where she, this is why I'm here, why I'm like this, and I don't know what to do, I can't, I can't, I never wanted this, but it's so addicting, and I like it, and I don't know what to do with that, and I – I – I -"

"Stiles!"

* * *

He stutters to a halt, small whine creeping back in as he struggles to calm down, struggles against the wolf that's itching to come out. When Derek doesn't say anything else, just holds his gaze and tightens his hold on his wrists for a fraction of a second, Stiles fights back harder, taking a deep, stuttering breath and holding it in for several seconds before letting it out without a hitch. After a few minutes of that, of breathing in slowly and carefully the scent of Derek so close and near about surrounding him, his face changes back, claws and fangs retract, and he sags forward slightly, though his eyes still don't leave Derek's.

Hands uncurling, Stiles whispers, "Thanks," and swallows thickly.

Without even a nod, Derek lets go of Stiles wrists and heads over to and up the stairs, Stiles following right on his heels. When he reaches the open air he tilts his head up into the wind, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath.

Stiles stands far away from the cellar doors but not too far from Derek, fidgeting because that's what his muscles are used to after about seventeen years, and waiting for Derek to say or do something, anything to help Stiles understand the emotions he can feel and smell rolling off Derek, but an explanation never comes of course. Instead Derek just drags a hand down his face then heads into the woods that lead back to the house, knowing Stiles will follow.

As he expected, Stiles is following closely behind, but he's doing so without a sound, which would be disturbing under normal circumstances, but is one so considering what just happened back there. So Derek decides he should probably say something.

"Tomorrow you can tear that down or burn it or something," he offers, voice rough and stilted, flinching slightly at the burning suggestion, even though it was his and it's been seven fucking years. With his back turned he feels more than sees Stiles jerky nod.

They're just clearing the woods just outside the house when the rest of the pack comes scrambling over, rushing into Stiles' personal space to nuzzle into him in an attempt at comfort. For a few minutes Stiles endures, Derek watching from the porch as the girls hug him and Scott and Isaac each clasp a shoulder, until he seems to need space and pushes them away.

"I'm fine, guys," he says, voice cracked and broken, "it was nothing. I think I'm gonna head home now, though." He brushes aside all the protests about how he shouldn't be driving right now, how someone should go with him, getting in the Jeep and driving away on autopilot.

* * *

Once he's gone, Lydia and Allison following a few minutes later in Allison's car, Derek lays into the betas. "Where the hell were you? Stiles could have been hurt, he could have been in serious danger, and none of you were there."

"It's fine, Derek, you were there," Jackson drawls, rolling his eyes, though Derek hears the slight skip in his heart.

"Yeah, I was, and there was nothing fine about that situation. Stiles is pack and when pack calls you come, no matter what. You got that?"

They all mumble replies.

"I _said, _do. You. Understand."

"Yes," they all say, each looking guiltier than the last, though none more so than Scott.

Derek folds his arms across his chest and jerks his head. "Go. We're done for the day."

* * *

It's several hours filled with worried looks from his dad, visits from the whole pack except the Hales, and trying to get rid of the memories of that cellar before Derek comes in through the door.

"Wow, using an actual door," Stiles remarks from the bed where he's staring up at the ceiling. "If I had known all I had to do was have a mental breakdown in front of you I would have done that ages ago."

Of course Derek doesn't respond, just walk into the room the rest of the way, shuts the door, then stands at the foot of the bed.

Stiles rolls his eyes as Derek just stares. "I'm fine, you didn't need to make a house call. Go back to chasing rabbits in the woods." (Never mind that Stiles basically just called himself a dog too.)

"You - did well."

"Uh, what?"

"In training."

"Well that's specific."

Derek glares in a way that says 'shut up and let me talk, you idiot'. "Surprising considering it's you."

"Gee, you know just how to make a girl feel special." Eye roll. "Hell of a non-sequitur, by the way."

Derek huffs and sits down stiffly in the chair by the bed, not saying anything else because it's Derek and he can't just say what he means; he has to be all awkward and tense and grumpy and shit.

"Whatever. Don't know how I did any of it though."

"Don't you?"

Looking up from his lap, Stiles meets Derek's inscrutable eyes, both of them searching the other. "I… maybe?" He swallows thickly as Derek keeps staring, something different about the look though Stiles can't tell what.

Nodding to himself like he's found the answer he's looking for, Derek says a simple "okay" and gets up, heading for his usual exit out the window.

As Derek opens the window Stiles' mouth speaks up without his permission. "Wait."

Stopping with the window half open, Derek doesn't move an inch or breathe.

"Stay. Please." Stiles' voice cracks on the second word but he can't bring himself to care too much as Derek stiffens for a second before his body relaxes on a sigh.

Closing the window again, Derek shrugs off his jacket and toes off his shoes before settling into the desk chair, figuring he may as well get comfortable for the night.

With an eye roll Stiles motions him over to the bed. "Come on, you're not sleeping in that thing, you'll get a crick in your neck, dude."

Expression making it seem like a burden, Derek stands back up and heads over to the bed, rolling his own eyes as Stiles glances at his jeans with a raised brow. He stops and shucks the pants off, ignoring the slight hitch of breath and skip of heart as he climbs in bed alongside Stiles, careful to leave as much space as possible between them.

"Thank you," Stiles whispers again just before he drifts off, lying on his side facing Derek.

Once he's sure Stiles is in a deep sleep, Derek reaches over and brushes his hair off his face, Stiles nuzzling up into it. "No, thank you."


	4. Chapter 4

_**Hello, children! Sorry about the delay. Midterms, a twelve-page original short story, and computer problems for my beta got in the way. Though, at this point, I should probably warn y'all that I'm not the best at updating because, for whatever reason, when I get to a certain point in a fic, I start getting writer's block for it. So yeah, just - don't get your hopes up for regular updates. Otherwise, enjoy! :)**_

* * *

In the middle of the night Stiles starts whimpering and twitching, waking Derek up. Sitting up quickly at the scent of fear he sees Stiles is still asleep so it must be a nightmare. When the whimpering intensifies, and Stiles' claws come out and go to scratch at the opposite arms, Derek reaches over, one of his hands grabbing both of Stiles' by the wrists and his other inserting itself in Stiles' hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp. The struggles continue so he drags Stiles into his lap, face tucked into his neck, hoping the familiar scent will calm him down at least a little bit.

It seems to do the trick, for as soon as he breathes Derek's scent in Stiles calms down, drawing in ragged breaths. Then, after a few moments of quiet, he alternates between nuzzling into Derek's neck, rubbing his nose and cheek in and rumbling out a sound that is remarkably like a purr, and leaning his head back into Derek's hand to get him to keep scratching at his scalp.

Swallowing thickly as he realizes what Stiles is unconsciously doing, Derek sits with his back to the headboard, Stiles in his lap, waiting an appropriate amount of time before transferring him back to the mattress. When he tries to get up Stiles latches onto his shirt and reels him back in, tucking his face underneath Derek's chin and nuzzling at the exposed skin. Holding back a sigh, Derek lets him, though he knows he'll have many demands of why he smells so much like Stiles.

* * *

Waking up with his obnoxious alarm, Stiles isn't surprised to find Derek already gone, his side of the bed cold, making Stiles sigh as he sits up and stretches.

Sadly, he also isn't all that surprised to find Peter sitting in his desk chair, watching him like the creeper he is.

"What're you doing here?" Stiles yawns, scratching at his arms.

Peter, of course, doesn't answer the question. "I see my nephew's been here recently. He stay here all night?" And there's one of his creepy smiles staying he knows exactly what the answer to that question is. Great.

_It's too fucking early for this, _Stiles thinks as he flops back with a groan. "What do you want, McCreepypants? I have to get ready for school."

"Want?" Peter chuckles. "Oh, I don't want anything; I just came to see how my new favorite beta was doing after his little ordeal yesterday."

"Aw, I'm your favorite? How sweet," Stiles gushes to the ceiling, hearing Peter get up and head back toward the open window. "I'm surprised though; I'd have thought you'd have ranked yourself number one because you just seem like the type of guy who'd have the whole self-worshipping thing down pat."

A growl turned into a dry chuckle comes from the direction of the window as Peter steps out casually. "Careful with that tongue, Stiles. It might get you into trouble one of these days."

"It already did," he grumbles to himself after Peter leaves, getting up to dress for school.

* * *

Throughout the day Stiles is once again never left alone for a minute, not even when he has to take a piss during history, which is just downright rude and annoying and way to voyeuristic for his tastes.

"Do you mind?" he snaps at Erica as she comes in and leans against the wall next to the sinks.

"No," she says with a smirk, arms crossed beneath her breasts. She just stands there and watches, all casual and shit despite the fact she's in the guy's bathroom.

Once he's done and washing his hands, having taken a few minutes longer with an audience, she finally decides to say whatever's on her mind.

"Why do you smell like Derek?"

Sputtering, Stiles splashes water on his front. "What? I don't -" He cuts himself off and takes a moment to breathe, and yep there's the scent that's been following him around all day. "I, uh, I don't know."

"Uh huh," Erica hums, leaving the bathroom with a flip of her hair as he's drying his hands.

* * *

It gets worse at lunch when Isaac sits down across form him and asks, "Why did Derek smell like you when he got back to the loft this morning?"

This time Stiles sputters while he's taking a drink of soda, making some of it come out of his nose and the rest go down his windpipe. Scott thumps his back while Lydia and Jackson each raise a brow at him, Boyd looks bored, Erica smirks again, and Allison fights a smile.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Stiles manages to choke out, though he knows they can tell he's lying at least partially. "I haven't seen Derek since training yesterday."

And now they definitely know he's lying because Lydia snorts delicately – and since when was it possible to snort delicately? Wait, it's Lydia. – and Erica laughs outright.

"I hate you guys," he groans into his hands.

Scott pats him on the back in camaraderie.

* * *

No matter what he does Derek cannot get Stiles' scent off. Well… He doesn't particularly want to, so he doesn't try too hard, but he'd rather avoid questions – especially from Stiles.

Sighing, Derek texts Lydia, telling her to bring her self-reacting Molotov cocktails; he figures they'll do just the trick in destroying the root cellar when Stiles comes for training later.

* * *

After school Lydia drags Stiles back to the chemistry lab, requesting – well, demanding – his lock-picking expertise. Never one to question Lydia, Stiles does as he's told, though he doesn't stop asking questions till she has all the necessary ingredients gathered.

"You're making Molotovs? Why?"

"So you can set ablaze to that root cellar," she answers, not looking up from her work, "after you tear it down with your bare hands and claws."

"…Yeah, that sounds really satisfying actually. Can I set those tree roots on fire too?"

"I don't know if that would be wise considering it's a nemeton."

"Whoa, really?" He thinks about it. "That makes sense actually."

"Exactly. The darach was trying to draw power from it by sacrificing you to it."

Stiles nods, chewing on his lip. Maybe they could use it to their advantage at some point or another, having a magical tree.

He shook himself out of his reverie when Lydia nudges him, letting him know she was done and he should lock the cabinet back up.

* * *

When the pack gets to the house Derek is just finishing up his workout so he heads out the door shirtless and sweaty, though not out of breath.

"Hey," Stiles says with a shaky smile as he gets out of the Jeep.

He smells slightly anxious – whether because of his freak out yesterday or the fact he asked Derek to stay last night, Derek isn't sure – and a tiny bit aroused, his heart beating faster when he sees Derek's bare torso. As per usual, Derek tries to ignore it, but there's something different about this time that won't let him.

With an air of judgment and condescension, Lydia marches up to him and carefully hands over the Molotovs. "Here, you carry them. If Stiles does he's bound to shake them too much and set you both on fire."

"Hey!" Stiles protests as the others laugh and snort out their agreements. Huffing, he marches – much like Lydia just did, actually, which is scary – off into the woods in the direction of the cellar. "Well, come on!" he calls after Derek, not turning around.

Fighting the urge to roll his eyes, Derek follows, leaving instructions for the others to practice sparring while he and Stiles take care of this. Scott offers to come along, but Derek declines, saying he's needed more with the other betas, implying that if Stiles wanted or needed Scott there he would've asked.

Walking at a normal pace so as not to activate the chemicals, Derek can see Stiles much further ahead. By the time he arrives Stiles has already torn the doors off and into pieces. Figuring it'll be good for him, Derek sits down a reasonable distance away and watches as Stiles tears the cellar apart bit by bit, tossing it all in a pile, growling as he goes.

Before long it's all down, Stiles somehow managing to get even the support beams without the dirt crumbling down on him.

Once he's sure Stiles is done Derek walks over to him and hands off one of the cocktails without a word. Both backing up, Stiles lobs the bottle at the great pile of wood, the glass shattering in an explosion of flames. The top layer crumbles to ashes fairly quickly and easily before the fire starts to dwindle around the middle, so Derek gives Stiles the other bottle, which lands with another satisfying crash.

Glancing at Stiles, Derek sees a grim smirk on his face, eyes over-bright. He nudges his shoulder with his own, gaining his attention. Derek nods at the flames eating the wood hungrily, eyebrows raised. Stiles' smirk turns into a soft smile and he nods in return, nudging Derek's shoulder in thanks.

It's a nice, intimate moment, Derek thinks, despite the reason behind their little bonfire – and despite the fire period. Which is why he feels kind of bad for ending it.

"We should -"

"Get back to training, yeah," Stiles interrupts quickly, shaking his head and flapping his arms.

Derek narrows his eyes, getting the feeling he's missed something since he could've sworn Stiles' heart had just skipped a beat, but he can't be sure because the fire is sort of messing with his sense of smell, so he can't check that way.

At least Stiles didn't ask why Derek smells like him.


	5. Chapter 5

After that the days start passing by normally. Now, though, Stiles takes part in all the trainings. More than that, he's some sort of savant or prodigy or something.

In sparring, a few weeks in, he can take on all the puppies at once and dodge about eighty percent of their attacks, even when they works together against him. When the bait he can elude everyone but Jackson, who's the best scent tracker, and Allison and Derek, the best trackers period. As for doing the tracking himself, he can find everyone but Derek – though he did get damn close that one time.

Alongside that stuff Stiles starts working on his senses, turning on and off the extra perception or simply ignoring things he sees or hears or smells that is boring and/or unimportant. Most of the time though he leaves his super sniffer on because it's fun to figure out the day-to-day scents he encounters. He quickly realizes that he'd already memorized the scents of the entire pack (probably why he didn't notice he smelled so much like Derek after the root cellar incident; he was already used to being around it all the time, since Derek liked to invade his bedroom), along with his dad's, Scott's mom's, Danny's (honestly, he was surprised Jackson hadn't fessed up to his best friend about his wolfy ways) – even Chris Argent's. (He and Allison have the same undertone: silver.) But what's really fun is figuring out the scents of the different emotions.

For each person an emotion smells slightly different, Stiles has found. Like, let's say, embarrassment. It has a sharper, bitterer hint to it on Jackson than it does on everyone else. It's still not too harder figuring them all out – all except one.

There's this one scent in particular that for the life of him he can't pinpoint. He's not even sure if it's emotion, it just _feels _like one, y'know? All he knows is that it's always on Derek, only Derek, and the intensity changes. He's tried asking the other betas, seeing if they might know, but they all give him this weird look that clearly says he's either insane or stupid (probably because he's asking about how the alpha smells). Which, hey, _rude_.

But seriously, it's been like two months since he grew fangs and claws and he's no closer to figuring out this stupid mystery scent. It's to the point where he's almost ready to either ask Derek himself, which would be a suicide mission, or talk to Deaton about it. (There is abso-fucking-lutely no way he's going to Peter about this, or anything really.) Then, in training one day the scent is really fucking strong for some reason, like seriously he almost chokes on it (because, y'know, even though it's nowhere near disgusting there is still something as too much of a good smell, y'know? Strength in moderation and all that shit), making him mess up when sparring with Derek and dodge an obvious move too late, getting clawed in the face. (Which, hey, he doesn't go after Derek's ridiculous, perfect face, so why is Derek going after his? Again, rude much?)

"Stiles, focus," Derek growls, backing off for a moment.

"I'm trying," he hisses back through his fangs. Thanks to werewolf healing he no longer has ADHD, but growing up being unable to focus on one thing at a time has really helped in that he can use all of his super senses at once without getting overwhelmed like the others can. Sometimes, though, Stiles can still become a little bit distracted if there's something really interesting that one of his senses has picked up. This seems to be one of those times.

"Then try harder." The alpha moves back in, not even shifted in his beta form yet.

Baring his fangs at Derek and grinding his teeth, Stiles forces the scent to the back of his mind and decides it's probably time he go talk to Deaton later.

Later turns out to be way after practice. Derek got in more than a few hit before Stiles was really able to put all his energy and focus into the match, so as he's driving home he's still healing scratches on his face and torso, some broken ribs, and a pulled shoulder. His father isn't too thrilled when he sees this at dinner, but Stiles waves it off.

"Please, I got off easy," he snorts into his pasta, and it's true. "You should see Jackson and Erica." The two started bickering over who fucking knows what, so Derek had made them pair together against Stiles, then Derek himself. Let's just say it didn't go too well for them either time.

His dad narrows his eyes at him. "You're sure you're fine." And there he goes using that interrogation voice again.

That earns him an eye roll. "Yeah, dad," Stiles says around a mouthful of cheese, meat sauce, and pasta, making the man grimace. "Wounds from an alpha just take a bit longer to heal."

Once that's settled conversation goes back to normal: Stiles tries to get information on the on-going investigations and John dodges the probing questions by asking about how the rest of the pack is doing. It's nice, a spot of normalcy when a lot of things have changed recently.

Dinner eaten, table and dishes cleared, Stiles goes to head back out.

"Where're you off to?" his dad asks from the couch, some football game on the TV.

"There's just something I gotta ask Deaton," Stiles answers, tossing his keys up and catching them mid-fall – definitely something he would have fumbled pre-bite. Actually, he had every time he'd tried…

His dad's brows furrow and he turns around to look at Stiles over the back of the couch. "Nothing wrong, is there? You said you were fine."

"Nah, just something that's been buggin' me. Nothin' to worry about." He grins crookedly.

"Well all right, just don't be out too late, you've -"

"—got school in the morning, yeah yeah, I know."

Now his dad's the one rolling his eyes. "Okay, smartass, just be careful."

"As if I'm ever anything but," Stiles quips over his shoulder, grin turning into a smirk as he heads over to Roscoe.

* * *

Arriving at the closed clinic, Stiles goes in through the backdoor, left unlocked for wolfy visitors at any time of day or night, and makes a beeline for the back office.

Deaton looks up from some sort of paperwork. "Mister Stilinski, always a pleasure. What can I do for you tonight? No trouble I hope?"

Squinting his eyes as he tries to decide whether that was sarcasm, Stiles flops in the chair across from the vet. "Nah, there's just something that's been bugging me so I thought I'd pass on the annoyance and bug you about it." He smirks and gets a raised brow, saying to go ahead with the bugging. "So I've been learning the scent for different emotions and all that, right? And most of it's, y'know, pretty easy, kinda just common sense crap. But there's this one smell that I can't for the life of me figure out and, dude, it is driving me crazy." His arms flail in a demonstration of how annoying it's been.

The vet nods and folds his hands together on top of the desk. "I see. Can you describe the smell for me?"

Sighing, Stiles gives it some thought, tapping his fingers on the armrests, more out of habit than need at this point. "Uhh, sorta smoky, y'know, like a campfire that's just been put out? With a kinda oak-y but sweet hint to it? I don't know it's kinda hard to describe. It's just there and it smells good, except when it's really strong, and I can't figure it out."

"Hmm…" The folded hands move up underneath his chin for a few moments before Deaton gets up and heads over to a bookshelf filled with obscure, valuable-looking texts. "And who did you say this scent was coming from?"

He licks his lips, his tapping stuttering out of rhythm. "I, uh – How did you -?"

Without turning around, head bent over as he searches for a certain page in the volume he pulled out, Deaton replies, "It's reasonable to assume this scent is coming off a person, someone you spend a significant amount of time with and are close to no doubt. So who is it? Miss Martin, perhaps?"

"Someone I'm – No, uh, it's coming from Derek."

That makes the vet – emissary – whatever look up, though his expression doesn't change. (Seriously, what is with this guy always being cool and blank as a cucumber?) "Interesting…"

Stiles throws his arms up, mouth hanging open and eyebrows furrowed. "'Interesting'? That's it?"

Putting the book back in its space, Deaton turns around. "I'll have to do a little more digging, but I believe I know what's happening here."

He waits a few moments; hands open in a gesture for more. "But you're not gonna tell me, are you?"

"Not till I know for certain, no." The man smiles, moving around the desk to clap a firm hand on Stiles' shoulder. "No need to worry, Mister Stilinski; it's nothing bad, I promise."

"But it means _something_, right? There's a reason? I'm not just going crazy here?" He motions at his head to demonstrate insanity. "Because these past few weeks it's sorta felt like I am, y'know more than usual, because _nobody else _knows what the hell I was talking about when I asked them about the smell."

Deaton's smile twitches, a small enough gesture that Stiles definitely wouldn't have noticed when he was human. He glares at the man before getting up, knowing Deaton's not gonna give anything away, not until he deems it necessary.

When he's at the door Stiles spins on his heel to face him again. "Hey, why did you think it was coming from Lydia? The scent? We're not really that close. Neither are Derek and I, actually." He's given up on Lydia, and they are closer, but not close like him and Scott, or her and Allison. And a part of him would like to get closer to Derek, and not just because he's the alpha or whatever, but it's kinda hard when he's an asshole most of the time.

The expression twitches again but otherwise he doesn't give anything away. Throwing his arms up a final time in exasperation, Stiles continues out the clinic, Deaton's voice following after him.

"I'll get back to you in a few days, Mister Stilinski."

* * *

When he gets back home Derek is in his room, sitting in the chair by the bed that has been deemed his; it even smells like him.

Stiles falls into his desk chair and spins it so he's facing Derek. "What's up, sourwolf? Ya miss me the past few hours?" He waggles his eyebrows.

"Not even a little bit," Derek grunts, getting up and walking over.

"Sooo, you're here why?" He swallows thickly, the smoky scent wafting into his nose and hitting the taste buds in the back of his throat, as Derek gets closer.

Derek stops right in front of him, making him crane his neck slightly at the height difference since he's sitting down. Reaching out, Derek grabs his chin (lighter than he would have expected) and tilts his head to the side.

"Umm…" His heart is really starting to race and that, along with the scent and the proximity, has the potential to make him dizzy. Hands clenching around the arms of the desk chair, Stiles tongue darts out to lick his lips, his eyes watching Derek study – something.

Dropping his chin, apparently satisfied with what he sees, Derek pushes Stiles so he's sitting up straight then lifts his shirt, fingers probing.

"There any particular reason you decided to feel me up or were you just feeling especially creepy this evening?"

Still not saying anything (of fucking course), Derek draws the shirt back down and spins Stiles' chair, shoves him forward slightly, then lifts one of Stiles' arms, feeling around the muscles of his upper arm and shoulder – the one he injured earlier.

"Are you – making sure I healed from practice?" Stiles asks as Derek finishes and turns the chair back around to face him. "I'm fine dude, you know I can handle it." Forcing himself to calm down, he lets go of the chair and stands up, bringing them close together, chests touching and noses centimeters apart.

_Aaand that was a bad idea, now the smell's even stronger, _Stiles thinks, swallowing again and clenching his fists as his hands itch to reach out and touch, wander, explore. _Down, boys._

Searching Derek's eyes, Stiles sees the pupils dilate slightly and hears Derek's heart skip a beat, making Stiles tilt his head. _What…_

"What -" he starts to say before Derek lurches forward, runs his nose up Stiles' throat, snuffling and breathing out, then turns and jumps out the window.

"What the _fuck _just happened?" he asks the empty room, running a hand through his hair, neck tingling where Derek ran his nose along it.

* * *

Running back to the loft, Derek growls at himself, shifting and going down on all fours to push himself faster.

* * *

_**A/N: Hmm... What ever could be going on? Y'all have any theories you'd like to share?**_


End file.
